


what you need you have to borrow

by asael



Series: wonderwall, aka cheesy musician au [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, References to Drugs, brief reference to Miklan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:13:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21835750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asael/pseuds/asael
Summary: Sylvain's a decent guitar player, and once upon a time he even used to love it. Watching a stranger on stage begins a night that's different from any he's spent in a long time.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Claude von Riegan
Series: wonderwall, aka cheesy musician au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1992799
Comments: 29
Kudos: 155
Collections: FE3H Holiday Gift Exchange





	what you need you have to borrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neonbees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonbees/gifts).



> This fic was a lot of fun to write! I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you don't mind that I picked one of the rarer pairs in your request. There's just not much for these two out there, and I was inspired.
> 
> Thanks to my betas, and thanks to K for suggesting the name of Claude's band!

Sylvain was trying to stay out of trouble. He’d been told explicitly, in fact, to stay out of trouble before their set. Which seemed unfair, really, since he’d only shown up late _once_ , but you didn’t argue with Mercedes. Not when she said it in that sweet, sympathetic voice that drilled right down to your soul.

He hadn’t been able to defend himself, really. What could he say? There’d been a pretty girl, and she’d fluttered her eyelashes at him, and things had proceeded from there, and he’d lost track of time. It was shitty of him, he knew.

Sylvain was very aware that he was lucky to still be the Lions’ guitarist. Not because of that, specifically. Because of a lot of things. The girls, the alcohol, the bad decisions. 

He was good at bad decisions. Better at those than most things, really. But tonight he wasn’t going to make any bad decisions. Tonight he was going to be a well-behaved and upstanding young man. He would outshine Ashe on the “well-behaved, upstanding young man” scale. He had decided that.

And so here he was, watching the band on the ticket before them instead of getting a drink or finding another pretty girl.

They didn’t usually play festivals. The rest of them didn’t much care, but Felix hated the crowds, hated that they were one headliner among many, hated the beer and the shouting and the people who were clearly just sitting through their set to get to the next one. But this was a _charity_ festival, organized by one of Dedue’s countrymen, a benefit for rebuilding and recovery, so Dimitri had insisted upon it and Felix had been unable to refuse.

Sylvain didn’t mind it. If anything, he liked the crowds, he liked the way the attention was spread out over a lot of bands instead of being focused on just them, he liked being able to disappear into the crowd before and after and have a good time. Like he was doing now, though he supposed ‘good time’ was a debatable term.

He realized, though, that he was actually enjoying the band.

It had been awhile since he’d seriously listened to another band play. He didn’t write their songs - Dimitri had too many emo feelings to let anyone else write the lyrics he sang - though he occasionally contributed. Mostly, Sylvain concentrated on learning his part and making it _his_. Listening to other bands had helped back when he was learning, but these days it didn’t seem to matter.

But now he was, and it was… nice. Good. 

Hart of Gold was more along the lines of electro-dance-pop, nothing like The Blue Lions’ hard rock. But they had a beat you could dance to, and the pink-haired girl on keyboards knew what she was doing. Despite himself, though, it was the singer that Sylvain found it hard to look away from.

He looked it up on his phone during a break in their set. Claude von Riegan, from Almyra, somehow managing to make it big here where no one was very fond of Almyrans. Though Sylvain could see why - his voice was smooth and perfect, hitting every note just right, brimming with laughter and what seemed like delight. He drew in the eye, draped in gold, tan skin glimmering under the lights. He moved like the music was part of him, in his bones.

Sylvain found it all incredibly hot.

It wasn’t the first time he’d wanted to jump a strangers’ bones, and it wouldn’t be the last, but this time felt - different. Claude was gorgeous, that went without saying, but it wasn’t just his body or his pretty face. It was the music, his voice, the way he made it a part of him.

Something within Sylvain resonated with that. He had spent so long playing guitar, lending his voice to back up Dimitri’s vocals. When he started, it hadn’t been serious - it had been because Felix demanded it of him, because Dimitri wanted to start a band, because they needed a guitarist. So he’d started, and it had just been for fun, and somewhere along the line it had started to matter.

He’d started to like having a guitar in his hands, started to like the way his fingers flowed over the strings. Started to like the calluses on his fingers, the way the strap rested on his shoulders.

He’d started to love it, and then Miklan had taken his guitar and thrown it from their second-floor balcony to smash on the street below.

Sylvain had gotten another one, of course. He’d continued playing as if nothing had changed, but everything had. He remembered now who he was. What he was. He remembered that it didn’t much matter what he enjoyed, it only mattered what he could give other people.

They’d formed the band, they’d found fame. Sylvain had drowned himself in it, because that was what everyone wanted from him. Not to love the act of playing, but to love the attention, love the way it bent the world around him. Love the benefits, the girls, the drinks, the drugs.

But he remembered it, sometimes. The way it had felt when he loved to play, the simplicity of it.

Claude sang like he loved it.

Sylvain watched the whole set. He didn’t pull himself away until they were taking their final bows, playing their last encore, and he realized he was about to be late.

He rushed backstage, and there was Mercedes, waiting for him with a smile. There was not an ounce of disappointment in her eyes, but there was expectation. She looked at him like she expected to smell a girl on him, or a drink, and he smiled at her, weary. He deserved that. He knew it.

“Just got caught up watching the last band,” he said, raising his hands in a shrug. “We’ve got time, yeah?”

“We do,” she said, and he felt like she was looking right through him. Then their manager smiled and stepped aside so that he could walk by. “I could hear them a little. They were good, right?”

“They were,” Sylvain said, though it came nowhere near expressing how he’d actually felt. He laughed, and said what everyone would expect from him. “The keyboardist was pretty hot.”

He hear Felix scoff, somewhere past Mercedes. “Put your dick back in your pants. We’re on in 20.”

“Right,” he said, and walked in, picking up his guitar and checking the tuning. Dimitri glanced over from his conversation with Ashe, the head of their stage crew, and nodded at him. He seemed focused, serious, the way he always got just before a show. The energy in the room was good - anticipatory, prepared, the low roar of the crowd outside amping them all up.

Sylvain found himself excited for the show. It surprised him. It wasn’t as if he hated playing, and he always loved the energy and attention of their fans, but this was different, this was a sort of excitement he hadn’t felt in awhile.

He wanted to be onstage with his guitar in his hands.

“On in five,” Dedue said, and then Mercedes and Annette were urging them all to the wings. Sylvain ran a hand through his hair so it was artfully mussed, grinned at Ingrid when he caught her rolling her eyes, and then they were on.

The set was good. The set was great, even, the crowd shrieking their delight, stamping feet and swaying to the beat. Hart of Gold had been high energy, and it had barely dipped in the moments since the band had left the stage and the Blue Lions took it over. The fans were ready for them, and Sylvain could feel it in his bones. They all could.

And they played, and Sylvain - enjoyed himself.

It shouldn’t have been strange.

At first, he came out like he always had. A smile, a toss of his head, a wink to a pretty girl in the crowd as he began to play. Flirting, playing it up, letting his charisma and his hands work on autopilot.

But then he looked back at his band, at his friends. Dimitri was leaning into the mic, singing his heart out. Ingrid pounded her drums with controlled but fearless strength, sweat collecting on her brow, a smile on her lips. Dedue’s fingers on the keyboard were precise but no less emphatic, perfectly placed, enhancing everything they did. And Felix - their bassist threw himself into his playing with all that he had, the deep scowl on his face enough to tell anyone who knew him well that he actually loved this.

They all loved this. Sylvain was the only one who had drifted away, the only one who had allowed the mask to become reality. He thought about watching Claude onstage, the easy way he’d let go. He thought about his friends, putting all of themselves into what they did.

He relaxed, and he let it all fall away, and he just played.

It was the best show they’d done in a long time.

Afterward, they all felt incredible. Sylvain could tell, could see it on their faces, the high of performing, the buzz like nothing else. Sylvain wanted to keep that feeling going, capture the moment, and he didn’t want to do it alone.

“Let’s head back, guys,” he said, and ignored the surprised look on Ingrid’s face. She’d expected him to disappear into the crowd, he was sure, go find someone to occupy him for the night, leave them to their own devices. They’d all expected that, maybe.

But he didn’t want that this time.

They piled onto the bus that would take them back to the hotel the festival organizers were putting them up at. Ashe stayed behind, overseeing their equipment with a promise to join them later. Back at the hotel, they all piled into Dimitri’s room - the biggest, of course - ordered food, and talked and laughed and just _were_.

It felt good. It felt right, slinging his arm over Felix’s shoulder and teasing him about the girl in the crowd who’d made her own sign, glittery and eye-catching, that said _Marry me, Felix!_ He almost got his nose broken for that teasing, but Dedue quietly separated them, though Sylvain thought he’d caught the slightest of amused smiles on the man’s face. It felt right to reminisce with Dimitri about their earliest shows, their first live performance.

It felt good. _He_ felt good.

Finally they’d stayed up too late, and everyone began to trickle off to their own rooms. Sylvain wasn’t tired, but it felt right for things to end there. He realized that all night long he’d touched not a drop of alcohol, not a bit of anything that might take the night away from him.

He wasn’t sure what to think of that, so he decided to go to bed.

He walked through the long hallways of the hotel, back to his own room. His treacherous thoughts were adrift, the good feelings slipping away. He was wondering how long he would be able to keep this up, when what the fans really wanted from him was a smile, a wink, a chance to warm his bed. Not sincerity. Never that.

Then he saw Claude von Riegan.

It was almost one in the morning. If he’d thought about it, Sylvain would have expected to see Claude stumbling back from a party, plastered and high on life or some more dubious substance. He’d had such energy onstage, like the kind of guy who could go all night, who would make sure you had a good time.

Instead, he was in pajama pants and a t-shirt, yawning, poking at the soda machine. He looked up as Sylvain stopped next to him.

“It’s stuck, I think,” Claude said with a shrug and a smile. Close up, without the clothing and glittering makeup he’d been wearing onstage, he looked softer, more real.

“Room service will bring you one if you want,” Sylvain said, though he was sure Claude knew that.

“Sure,” Claude said, “but it’s late.” He shrugged again. “Oh well - it’d probably just keep me up anyway.”

“I saw your set,” Sylvain said. He didn’t realize he was going to say it until it came out of his mouth, and then he wasn’t sure why. “You guys are pretty good.”

“Thanks,” Claude said with a smile, and he looked at Sylvain. Sylvain hadn’t been able to see his eyes from the crowd, but now he could see how green they were, and how sharp. “You Lions did a good job, too.”

Sylvain smiled and leaned against the wall, all casual grace. It had been a good day. Maybe it could be a good night. Boys weren’t always his thing, but he’d been known to make some exceptions, and Claude was certainly something. “No afterparty?”

Claude didn’t blush, but he didn’t look bothered, either. He looked Sylvain up and down, slow, appreciative, and something about his demeanour changed. Something subtle, a mask sliding over his features, the weariness that had been there a moment ago turning into sly charm. “I know a few that are still going on, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Any other night, Sylvain might have said yes. Any other night, he would have taken the invitation Claude was offering, would have been expected to take it. Any other night, things might have gone a different way.

But he saw that mask slide over Claude’s features, that smile that was not quite reflected by his eyes, and he saw himself.

He thought of the sincere joy when Claude sang, the easy way he slipped into insincerity, and he wondered what it had taken Claude to get where he was. What people had expected of him, all this time. What he _expected_ people to expect from him.

“Not really,” Sylvain said.

Claude blinked, the barest hint of surprise crossing his face. Then he paused and he looked at Sylvain again. “I’ve got some board games in my room, if that’s more your style.”

It was silly. Maybe childish, even. Sylvain, well-known heartbreaker and party boy, turning down a night of debauchery to play chess with someone he’d just met? No one would have believed it, save for a few of his closest friends. If he didn’t come back to his room that night, everyone would think he found a girl, or a bottle, or something else he’d regret in the morning.

As it turned out, Sylvain did have a few regrets, because Claude beat him three times before he managed to pull off a win. Had he really gotten that rusty?

“Again?” Claude said with a grin. He was relaxed, still in his pajama pants, bare feet curled under himself on the bed. 

“Nah, I think I’ll go out on top,” Sylvain said, stretching.

“I”m not sure it counts as ‘on top’ if we’re 3-1,” Claude said. He slid the pieces into the box and folded up the board.

“I could show you what it means,” Sylvain said with a wink, because he knew Claude would laugh, he knew Claude would not take him seriously. Even if he was, in fact, half-serious.

Claude was gorgeous, and shockingly intelligent, and more observant than Sylvain felt was fair. They’d talked through all four games. At first about nothing in particular - the festival, their sets, their bands. Over time, though, the conversation had circled around and spiraled into odd and unexpected topics, became more personal and then less.

Sylvain had flirted with him, because Claude was attractive and it was second nature, but he’d been unsettled to realize that he was more interested in the things Claude had to say, in the startling moves his chess pieces made, then in getting him into bed.

Not that he wasn’t interested in that, too. But for tonight - for now - just talking felt right.

“You think I’d let you show me that on a first date?” Claude said, laughing like Sylvain knew he would. When he laughed, really laughed, it was hard to look away from him.

“Was this a first date?” Sylvain said. He was surprised to find that he genuinely wanted to know the answer. At first, he hadn’t been sure why Claude had extended the invitation - board games at one in the morning, of all things. But after their conversation, after their games, he thought he knew.

Claude, with those sharp green eyes, had seen in Sylvain the same things that Sylvain had seen in him.

And now Claude was looking at him again, a trace of a smile on his lips, evaluating, assessing.

Sylvain wondered just how smart Claude was. It was possible he was wasted on music, and should be in charge of the shadow government that everyone knew secretly ran the world. But then they’d all lose out on some great dance music.

He wondered what Claude really thought of him, all his masks, his self-destruction, his regrets.

“Why not?” Claude said, and he leaned in, across the space the chessboard had sat in for most of the night. Sylvain could do nothing but meet him in the middle.

Claude’s lips were warm and soft, and he kissed like he knew what he was doing, kissed like he would choose to be nowhere else. Sylvain’s hand came up and tangled in Claude’s hair, and he kissed Claude again, and again.

And that was where it ended.

Sylvain knew no one would believe that. He’d been in - well, on - a beautiful boy’s bed, and they’d been kissing, and somehow it had not ended with skin against skin, it hadn’t turned into Sylvain figuring out how to make Claude moan his name.

It hadn’t turned into sweaty sheets and quiet gasps and Sylvain leaving in the morning and never ever speaking to Claude again.

Instead, Claude pulled away, and smiled at him, and then he pushed Sylvain off his bed. “That was nice. Now get out, I’m exhausted.” His cheeks were flushed, his hair mussed, his lips red, and he looked simultaneously untouchable and like the most desirable thing in the world.

Sylvain grinned and ran a hand through his own hair, making himself more or less presentable. “How am I supposed to get a second date if you kick me out like this?”

“Check your phone,” Claude said, and with that mysterious pronouncement, he ushered Sylvain out the door with a quiet _good night_ and a sly smile.

Sylvain walked back to his own room, feeling tired and content with the world. He could not remember the last time he had felt like this. He pulled his phone from his pocket and unlocked it to discover his background had been changed to a selfie of Claude, and a new number had been programmed into it under the name 🦌✨ _deer king_ ✨♚

He’d left his phone on the bed a couple times while he used the bathroom, but how Claude had managed to get into it was a mystery.

Sylvain would just have to figure it all out next time, he decided.

He found himself looking forward to it. To Claude, and to the way he’d felt while playing today. Like he loved it. Like he was _allowed_ to love it.

He thought, after tonight, it was possible.

**Author's Note:**

> Blue Lions:
> 
> Dimitri - lead singer  
> Sylvain - guitar  
> Felix - bass  
> Ingrid - drums  
> Dedue - keyboard  
> Ashe - head of stage crew  
> Mercedes - manager  
> Annette - publicist
> 
> Golden Deer are a little more up in the air, except Ignatz definitely designs their album covers. Edelgard and company don't appear in this fic, but she heads up a very hardcore metal band called Black Eagle Strike Force & can and will rock your face off.


End file.
